Estoc Bloom
by Frucht.Fledermaus
Summary: "Today we start to pay the piper with each breath, yet Love knows not of death nor calculus above the simple sum of heart plus heart."
1. Blues for Elise: Wolf Hoffman

_**8:**_

"_By the time you swear you're theirs..._

* * *

"And don't let her intimidate you," instructed Jack Crawford as he sat behind is desk, peddling his paper work around into files.

"Why would I feel intimidated by her?" asked Alana.

"It's just a feeling I get whenever I've met with Dr. Du Maurier, or at least whenever I have a conversation with her. Phone, e-mail, whatever. She has a way of making you feel like a specimen. Like she's calculating you're entire mind, start to finish, which each sentence you say."

"Isn't that what phych's are supposed to do? And besides, I never took you for the type to be intimidated by women, Jack.", she said, tilting her head in a smirk.

"I'm. Just. Saying. She's good at what she does. She'd have to be if Hannibal is the only psychiatrist he'd ever consider speaking to about himself," as Jack paused his work to make a point.

"I understand he's the _only_ patient she will met with these days,"pulling her arm through the sleeve of her coat.

"Yeah. He's smart, but an odd duck. She strikes me as something similar. They have a very mentally spoken relationship from what I understand. You know, the reading between the lines kind- conversations that always feel like one big chess game."

"Well, it's a good thing I know a thing or two about psychology then."

"So do I, but I can never tell if that is helping or hurting me in conversations with Dr. Du Maurier."

"Okay, so you want me to talk to her about Hannibal. Ask her if there's anything she would find concerning about his relationship with Will Graham?"

"I _need_ Will on my team- he is a valuable asset to our group. You and I both know he has a tendency to...take his work home with him. I've assigned Hannibal as his unofficial shrink to make sure he only takes so much home with him. I need to know if my appointed shrink is sound," he added; incase he needed to further his point. The authority in his words always seemed to thinly conceal his apprehensions.

"I understand, Jack. I've been asking you take care of Will from the beginning."

"I know. And that is what I intend to do. I would go have a chat with her myself, but I'm still on a case right now."

"_Intimidated _by Dr. Du Maurier?"

"If you're asking if I'm in the mood to have my brain stroked by a praying mantis- the answer is no."

"Oh, stop. She's probably not like that- have you ever read any of her work? Her essays on the human condition are pretty... heartfelt, actually. Like something innate. Personal."

"I've always innately liked 69' Stingray Corvettes; doesn't make them warm and fuzzy."

Alana smirked again, amused by Jack's uncharacteristic anxiety toward someone she had always privately wished to speak to ,"I'll see what I can get her to talk about. I'll mention your concern for Will and ask for her consent to process any information on questionable reviews regarding Hannibal."

"Thank-you, Alana. Check in with me afterward. Let me know if I need to scrape you off the petri dish."

"Ha...ha," as she shoots Jack a glare before passing through the glass door of his office.

* * *

Alana steps out of her car, watching the sky be torn across by the wind while she grabs her purse. The sun is setting as the soft day rays stream through the trees. As she approaches the modern cabin style house, she can hear someone playing _'__Für__ Elise'_ in A minor from inside. The syncopated waves of piano tones glide under skilled fingers and seem to echo darkly through the walls. She pauses on the porch, appreciating the ending measures of song until it abruptly stops. She snaps out of her musing and moves to quickly smooth over the creases on her dress before raising her hand to knock on the front door. A moment passes before the textured front entry glides open.

Dr. Du Maurier stood in the door way; a silk, indigo blouse with a straight black pencil skirt delicately flattering her regal posture. Black, sharp heals. Her blonde hair was neatly styled into wavelets that rested on one shoulder. The expression in her eyes seemed controlled, yet commanding at the same time. It took Alana a moment to realize she had been staring and Dr. Du Maurier had been waiting for her to introduce herself. Instantly she juts her hand out.

"Hi. I'm sorry," holding her hand out in greeting, " Dr. Du Maurier?"

"Hello. Ms. Bloom, if I am correct," said the doctor, stating more then asking, "Come in."

"Did Jack tell you I was coming?"

"He did say that he was sending someone over to... discuss one of my patients," as she turned out to let Alana in, closing the door and slowly moving into the foyer. It had hard flooring- something only noticed by Alana because of the distinct clack Du Maurier's heels made on its surface. The smell of fresh cut flowers of all sorts seemed to hang in the air of the mutedly lit room. The starkness of the decor felt strangely alive with the fragrant pollen mizzling around.

"Right, he was referring to Hannibal Lecter."

"Yes."

Alana could easily sense what Jack had been referring to; she did feel studied. The cool, stringent movements of Dr. Du Maurier were indeed fazing. There was an exactness in her words and cadence in her tone that swayed with authority, yet there was something else in its timber. Alana fumbled a little, searching her brain for an interruption to the silence.

"I-I've read your essays. Your theory on the human monster was fascinating," which Alana instantly regretted saying, thinking to herself she sounded like a fangirl with psychology essays. She also had the bad habit of shooting off _'intelligent'_ conversation pieces when she felt anxious. It helped her compensate situations... with the obvious danger of over compensating.

"And...what did you find so fascinating about it?" as Du Maurier drew her eyes slowly up the length of Alana, considering each detail while Alana attempted to conceal her slight nervousness in the dim light.

"Your theory on the difference between learned and inherent hard wired behavior. How did you arrive at the conclusion of... what was the wording? Flow state madness? Flow state in itself is the idea of hyper focus, right?"

Dr. Du Maurier tilted her head toward a small hallway in the direction of her office; the clack of heels, steady and deliberate as she motions for Alana to follow, "Correct. One only enters a flow state when the individual achieves, what psychology circles consider, a suspension of self editing. A sort of... fixation."

"Go on. Now I'm curious," said Alana, slowly. They pass an alcove where the black, baby grand piano she heard from before rested. An empty wine glass sits on the far corner of the piano with something that she can't quite make out. Alana was distracted from lingering on the item with:

"Concept, in the mind, says that railroad tracks are parallel and never meet. Perception says that the railroad tracks meet at the distant point where one can plainly see that they converge. Which is true?"

They enter her office. It too is in the dark cherry wood style that furnishes the rest of the house. Book shelves line the side walls; decorations were sparse on her desk, save for two stalks of violet orchid plants bowing towards the far wall like small green snakes. Mounted on that wall, behind Dr. Du Maurier, were an assortment of sabers. Blades arranged in a fan shape with their handles collected at the bottom. A particularly slender, yet uninteresting sword iconed the middle and faced the opposite direction, the tip pointing downward. Du Maurier, having noticed Alana's eyes resting on the center sword, answered the previous question for her.

"Both, and man will try to integrate the two the best he can, or choose one in preference of the other."

Alana snapped out of her slight trance toward the blade,"I-I see. So when you referenced flow state in that context, the railroad tracks are the individual's hyper focus?"

"And the human monster is a runaway train trying to reach the visible horizon line, knowing it will never come."

"Well I think we all have had to apply a little of that to our lives at some point."

"We're all a little mad. Sometimes by our own application," added Du Maurier.

Alana paused, taking in the statement, considering how that could have been directed. She cleared her throat, "Right- so...Hannibal. Did Jack discuss anything as to why he is checking in on your patient?"

"No, we did not speak for long," with a side long glance.

"He seems to feel the need to watch Hannibal. I guess, more to watch him watching Will... a patient of Dr. Lecter's. He thought the best way to do that would be to talk to you. You are acting as his therapist as of recently, aren't you?"

"I am familiar with Will Graham. Hannibal has made mention of him... selectively."

"What has he mentioned?"

"I'm sure, Ms. Bloom, that I do not need to remind you of confidentiality."

"No, no. Of course not- but if there were matters Hannibal discussed during your sessions that you felt were..."

"Un..savory?"

"Y-yes. Something like that, then you would be sure to-"

"No-ti-fy you."

"Yes."

Without missing a beat, Dr. Du Maurier moved a piece of paper in front of herself and a pen as she wrote out something. The pause allowed Alana to let out a breath she did not know she had been holding. She felt like her mind was on some kind of dance floor instead of a chess game like Jack had mentioned. There was a controlled swiftness to the way the conversation was being directed and clearly Dr. Du Maurier was leading. Alana felt far from graceful in this state, feeling very much off balanced by the dominate intelligence of Du Maurier's perfect mental form. Her regard was indiscernible, but she didn't come off entirely cold either. Dr. Du Maurier held up the piece of paper to Alana.

"What's this?"

"My contact information," allowing her fore finger to lightly touch Alana's in the exchange.

Alana slowly drew the paper to herself, unsure of the contact, studying the paper in her hand. "I Love your hand writing... there's almost poise in your lettering," as she watched the ink dry to the page.

An almost coy smile brushed itself on Du Maurier's lips. Before Alana could notice the momentary curve, Du Maurier continued the dialogue in distraction. "I am supporting your arrangement. Hannibal is my only patient not adhering to my unplanned retirement; that alone seeds some degree of uneasiness about my sessions with him. I am giving you my informed consent to your request."

"Thank-you. Do you feel there is some sort of risk in seeing him. Jack believes there must be something he regards about you for him to still want to continue meeting."

"We are different as we are similar- as opposite as we are alike. We know a thing by its opposite corollary: hot by having experienced cold; good, by having decided what is bad; Love by hate."

"So what are your impressions of his... aggressive emotions? I guess what I'm asking is if he has ever spoken to you about, or displayed any in your sessions."

"He has amputated some."

"I"m not sure I know what you mean."

"A person will censor themselves, even in the state of rawness. Therapy. If a person asks someone to be truthful... they should more likely expect a lie. I have never asked Hannibal for truths because it would insight him to change his...dance, if you will. If I asked him if he felt aggression, he would either lie or conceive a way to validate his aggression in practically. Both are untruths."

"So what do you do?"

"Admire the disguise."

"But... then how are you helping someone? How are you helping Hannibal?"

"Do you know what the problem with disguises are, Ms. Bloom?"

Alana gave a look as if asking her to continue.

"No matter how well crafted the disguise is, it is always a self-portrait."

Alana took a deep breath, as if breathing in that statement across the room- yet all she could take in was the scent of orchids. She found it slightly unsettling that though Du Maurier's tone had remained amiable for the duration of their conversation, that sentence seemed to have traces of warning in it. She found herself looking at the weighted parchment paper in her hand again, the feel of the furrows and textures the ink had sowed itself in; tracing her finger over the name, '_Bedelia_', slowly.

"Shall we do dinner then?", said Du Maurier, breaking and to some degree sating the tension.

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"We can discuss my patient Hannibal, as well as his unofficial patient, Will Graham."

"Right! Yes. Will..."

Du Maurier came around to the front of the desk, eyes down as she cupped an orchid blossom in the tips of her fingers. She took a deep breath, taking in its slight fragrance as she drew the violet petal near her face. It swayed in its release of her grasp as she motioned Alana toward the front door. Alana again followed the slow, deliberate clack of Du Maurier's heels through the foyer. She rolled her eyes to herself, feeling embarrassed Dr. Du Maurier caught her schoolgirling herself over a piece of paper; like it was some note passed to her in class from a boy she had a crush on. _Wait a minute- a crush? _

"So, Ms. Bloom, are you a red, or a white person?"

"Oh, I'm actually a beer drinker, if I'm being honest."

Dr. Du Maurier paused, assessing the answer with nothing more then a head tilt, "I see."

As Alana moves through the front door realizing twilight had come and gone. She stops on the porch and turns to regard the blonde, "Doctor Du Maurier?"

The doctor paused in the ajarness of the door as she waited for Alana to continue.

"Is there a way to stop the runaway train once it is moving?"

Bedelia waited before speaking as her fingers curled in the edge of the door frame. The blue of her eyes assailing in their perfect cold. "Depends on your perceptions of inertia."

"Like the 'what happens when an unstoppable force meets immovable object' question?"

"Something like that... goodnight, Ms. Bloom."

"Goodnight, Dr. Du Maurier."

"You may call me, Bedelia"

"You can call me, Alana."

"I'm sure I will, Ms. Bloom."


	2. Music Box Opera: Delerium

_**7:**_

"_Shivering and sighing..._

* * *

"I have to say, I felt pretty mind fucked, Jack!"

Jack sat at his desk with a strained smirk on his face as he was trying to contain his comment. Alana held on hand in her hip, "What?"

"I'm just wondering if I should give you the 'I told you so' speech now or later," entertained by his colleague's fidgeting.

"Not funny," she said dryly, clearly not sharing his amusement.

"So how much of what she had to say went over your head?" as he smirked, leaning back in his chair rocking in it with a bobbing motion.

"It wasn't that it went over my head, it was more like sitting in the theatre of my own brain surgery. I could understand everything, but I didn't know if I should have felt in awe of her technique, or mentally intruded on."

"_Praying Mantis._"

"Still not funny, Jack," crossing her arms.

"I know. I know," laughing to himself. He cleared his throat, "What did she have to say about Hannibal?"

"She invited me over tonight for dinner to talk about him. She didn't have much to say initially, just that he does talk about Will from time to time."

"Wait. You agreed to dinner with Dr. Du Maurier?"

"Yes. Is there a problem with her inviting me to dinner?"

"Nah-no, no. I've just never been in the doctor's company on a casual level. I wouldn't know if she's as dissecting talking about the weather or anything like that. She doesn't exactly strike me as someone who lets her hair down and goes and does '_psych's gone wild' _on the weekends."

Alana raised her eyebrow and glared at him. Again he strained himself to hide the smirk threatening to edge his face, "Just poking at you Alana. In all seriousness, I do appreciate you doing this for me. I think you're tough enough to deal with any mental discomfort she may make you feel. You're really just there to consult on Hannibal, so she should have no need to vivisect your head."

"I know- guess I'm just a little concerned I might not remember that's the case."

"Concerned?"

Alana paused, trying to think how she would answer Jack. Thinking as to why she felt so psychologically intruded on when she spoke to Dr. Du Maurier the other day. There was a noticeable sharp edge to her talk. The scrupulously analytic temperament was disarming even by standing in the same space as Bedelia. Just thinking about the ice in the doctor's eyes made Alana feel a growing anxiety that made her heart flutter. It was hard to tell if she could even call the feeling anxiety, since the word itself seemed too simple to encapsulate any sort of emotion describing her feelings toward Bedelia. She felt challenged in Du Maurier's presence, though not in a territorial way. Something that made Alana want to work harder as a fellow psychologist to understand people, their mysteries and eccentricities; their motives and derivative natures. The nervousness Alana felt was because Bedelia seemed to be able to pick apart all of this in a single look. Her excellence in the art of understanding was both fascinating as well as... terrifying. Feeling those layers of gentle, yet intrusive pressure in Bedelia's presence made Alana have all the more reason prompt away from the situation. To disassociate.

Alana looked up from her thoughts to Jack, "It's nothing. Just trying to not let myself feel out matched by her level of perception."

"She _is_ a respected psychologist. The best, according to Hannibal," as Jack noticed the pensive frown forming on Alana's face. He stood from his desk, slowly straightening his posture before spreading his fingers on its surface, "That doesn't mean you're not, Alana. Like I said, don't let her intimidate you. Use what _you're_ good at."

"What do you mean?" as she tilted her head as swayed back and forth a little with her arms folded.

"You seem to think it's a one way street- like you don't have something to bring to the psychology table. Be you. It might even throw her off balance. If she starts sizing you up, don't be afraid to size her right back. You're a psycho too."

Alana laughed a bit, "You mean Psych?"

"Whatever. She goes right, you go left. She goes up, you go down. She goes cold, you go _hot_."

"But isn't that playing a game? I thought I was suppose to be consulting."

"You are, but like I said before- conversations with her are like a chess game. If you outthink the queen on the board, she might give up the king. Get it?"

"...the king meaning... her information on Hannibal?"

"Exactly."

"Ah," as Alana pushed her hair behind her ears, "Either way, I should remember I'm just there to discuss Hannibal Lecter. That's it," as she moved to grab her purse and coat before making her way to the door, "Thanks for the input, Jack."

Jack stopped her from leaving, "I think it was Hannibal who said that psychology is a sword pointed at both ends."

Alana paused to regard him, taking in the thought before exiting his office.

* * *

"It smells great," said Alana as she stood in Dr. Du Maurier's kitchen taking in the scent of herbs and lemon zest. White orchids bow their stems from dark wood shelving on one of the far wall. She knew she was feeling tense already, standing arms folded over herself to the side of the display in front of her. She watched Du Maurier, again in a rich purple and black outfit, lightly mizzle in ingredients to a pan of melting butter, a practiced finesse in the movements of her wrist and fingers. It reminded her of the piano she over heard the first time she came to Bedelia's house; the fluidity, the expression. Light music arrangements from Bizet's '_Carmen' _could be heard playing from over in the dining room that added to the ambiance.

"I was not sure if you were vegetarian, so I decided on a fava bean salad with spring shallot ragout for dinner," as Bedelia moved across the kitchen to the cutting board, "served bruschetta style on ciabatta bread."

"A hearty salad. I approve. I'm not vegetarian though, so you didn't need to worry about that," Alana spoke through a nervously charmed curve of her lips, "Is there anything I can help you with preparing? I'm pretty okay with navigating myself in the kitchen."

Bedelia angeled her head toward the refrigerator, "There is something else I need your approval of if you wouldn't mind," as she cleaned the chives off of her knife. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a large mason bottle; uncapping it and pouring the frothy dark contents into a tall glass. She held it out to Alana and watched her take a sampling taste, eyeing the slightness of liquid collecting on the ends of her mouth.

"Is this a lager?" as she took another sip, "...from a... cabernet wine barrel?"

Bedelia edged her mouth in a slight smirk, turning back to the counter as she moved to shut the stove burner off, "Yes, it is," She set two white, square lipped dishes on the counter to begin plating with griddle toasted bread, "I appreciate your attention to detail, Ms. Bloom."

"I don't think it takes attention to detail to appreciate how delicious this is," as Alana sipped from the edge of the glass again. She watched as Du Maurier's hands gently drizzled the ragout in a zig-zag over the leafy greens and delicate curls of pale provolone. The presentation of food looked immaculate: the light steam, the fragrance, the colors colliding perfectly in the arrangement on the white plates, as if they were a painter's canvas. Alana spoke before thinking, "This is like watching food porn."

Bedelia held up both finished plates without missing a beat and looked to Alana, tilting her head the direction of the dining room, "Shall we have a taste then?"

The inference was not lost as Alana smiled a bit, nervously, realizing her childish statement left her wide open for the simpering pun from Dr. Du Maurier. She walked with her toward the music in the other room. The dark wood table had been set so the place settings were caddy corner to each other. A fresh flower arrangement of lavender and and indigo carnations rested in the center over an ivory table runner. Du Maurier set the two platters down before retrieving herself a wine glass from a large cherry wood cabinet. "Feel free to sit," motioning to one of the place settings. Alana set her lager glass down as she situated herself at the table, placing the cloth napkin on her lap. Du Maurier poured herself a glass of white wine before doing the same.

Alana took a deep breath, taking in the faint scent of the flowers in front of her. Somehow the redolence complimented the meal decorating her plate instead of clashing with its scent. Her attention moved to Du Maurier, now sipping her wine as she waited for Alana to try the dish. Alana decided to jump right into the conversation of why she was here in an attempt to keep herself focused, "S-so why do you think Hannibal is still seeing you? Why not just move on to another therapist when he learned you were unexpectedly retiring?" bringing a small forkful to her mouth. She stopped mingling the food in her mouth a moment, trying to not embarrass herself with the moan threatening to escape her lips from the deliciousness. The ragout was incredible, teasing the buds on her tongue strangely, yet entirely... pleasurable. She stopped the sigh by reaching for the beer again and taking another sip.

Bedelia seemed not to notice the reaction, or at least seemed unphased, "It can be hard for some patients to start over; tiring. Hannibal is someone who works very hard at being honest with himself. It is not something I would say comes naturally to him. Through out our sessions, I have seen enough of him to see the truth of him. I can understand, given how much he has let me see, why suggesting another therapist would... _upset_ him."

"...you did mention how he makes you uneasy at times."

"Yes."

"In what ways, exactly?" as Alana slid her knife through the array of edibles on her plate. She drew another fork full into her mouth, letting the light seasonings palate with beer.

"I can offer him understanding. It seems to be what he wants- for someone to see him. It's nice when someone sees us, but never too close in his case. That said, I have learned to require of myself my own defenses should something become... too unsightly."

"Are you concerned he is developing possessive tendencies toward you as his therapist?"

"... it has crossed my mind, among other things."

"Is that why you have all of those swords in your office?" Alana asked, half joking, "I was noticing them when I was here the other day."

"I saw you seeing them," turning her wine glass in its place on the table back and forth by the stem.

"So... therapy aside, why swords?"

"Swords translate to air, air is knowledge, knowledge is power."

"Well, I can agree with you, but I don't think power is everything."

"Have you ever felt powerless?"

"Of course."

"Then you understand the importance of having it," bringing the wine glass to her lips. She sips and then held the glass near her mouth.

Alana noticed the traces of warning in her voice. She understood defensive tones, but why was Bedelia suddenly regarding her in such a way? Or was it so sudden? The tonality seemed pasted tense.

"So," Dr. Du Maurier continued, setting her glass down, "Will Graham."

"Yes?"

"I understand you rejected being his therapist."

"Yeah. I guess you could say I sat too close to him, emotionally. I didn't feel that I could offer him objectivity."

"Are the two of you involved?"

"Hm? Oh, no. I don't date."

Bedelia raised her eyebrow in a way that suggested for Alana to elaborate. Alana pushed a crescent of tomato across her plate nervously, "I think I spend too much time assessing feelings instead of actually feeling them. I would find myself too interested with Will's condition. I know myself enough to tell that I could easily confuse intrigue for romantic feelings."

"At times, are they not one in the same?" sliding a piece of lettuce onto her fork with her knife. The question hung in the air, along with the slight sent of lavender decorating the center piece.

Alana gave a small nervous laugh, "Not... all the time..." as she paused to look at her plate. She bit her lip before refocusing the subject, "Either way, yes, I did refuse Will as my patient. That is where Hannibal came into the picture."

"I see," as Bedelia sipped the white liquid.

Alana again found herself feeling under the microscope of Dr. Du Maurier's gaze, noticing that whenever she seemed to say, 'I see', she was gleaming far more then she conveyed. She remembered what Jack had said- about trying to level the playing field with her own take on information, "Bedelia," with a deep breath, "...can I ask you a personal question?"

Du Maurier set her glass down, again with an expression that instructed an elaboration.

Alana cleared her throat, "You retired because you had been attacked by a patient. Did Hannibal have anything to do with that?"

Bedelia paused, breathing in before answering, "I did not retire... _because _I was attacked by a patient. I retired _for_ a patient."

Again Alana noticed the slight defensive tone, though more subdued this time, "Would it be too forward to ask you what you mean by that?"

"I'm not sure why you think you cannot ask me what ever you want, Ms. Bloom."

"Well, to put it bluntly..." trying to word herself, "you're very guarded. You're very choosy with your words, like you have to design each sentence. It can be off putting. Jack once referred to feeling like a his mind was being fondled by a praying mantis whenever he was around you."

Bedelia raised an eyebrow. She spoke the next sentence _very_ slowly, "Jack Crawford compared me to a cannibalistic insect?"

The timber in Du Maurier's tone immediately made Alana regret saying that,"I'm sure he was just being Jack," as she takes a gulp of beer. She set her glass down with a slight clumsiness. Perhaps it was the lager was making her so suddenly informal.

Bedelia paused again considering her demeanor, considering Alana, "Is that how you feel around me, Ms. Bloom?"

Alana paused, trying to recall what Jack had mentioned about playing opposites. She'll have to try continuing to be forward through the thicket of cryptivity, "It's a push pull. I feel like half the time my conversations with you are like a dance, other times it feels like you play a strategy game with me in the way you conduct yourself."

"Games require two players," added Bedelia, making Alana acknowledge the two points to her statement.

Alana eyed the beer in front of her, seeing the froth slowly pulling itself down the inside of the empty glass like gently dissipating smoke. She knew she could handle herself with alcohol, she just didn't realize she had polished off such big of drink that quickly. Her head was starting to tell her she drank it too fast, but her mouth seemed disconnected from her head of a sudden and the next sentence just rolled out, "...dances work best with a partner."

Dr. Du Maurier raised her head as she took in a deep breath. A moment passed as she squared her shoulders before tilting her head slightly, "Are you asking me to dance with you, Ms. Bloom?"

Alana set her fork down to take in the question. Distiling Du Maurier's meaning behind each sentence was becoming frustrating as well as _enticing._ Was Du Maurier flirting with her? If she was, why was she being so defensive at the same time? Was this all in her head? It was difficult to describe the level of disorientation Alana was experiencing from feeling mentally probed and a bit buzzed. Like she had been a fish on dry land and now was tossed into the sea of impressionable thought, into feeling an entire new world of suggestion with no measurable depth or verve.

Again she found herself talking without completing her train of thought, "Psychologically speaking, of course. I think it would make consulting with one another easier."

Bedelia move a grape tomato around in her mouth, the now dark eclipses of her eyes looking up from her plate still nursed their secret, "That seems like a duplicitous gamble."

"When has a bad bet ever stopped a gambler?"

Du Mauier paused, bringing her wine glass to her lips before finishing off it's contents, "Very well," moving to begin clearing the table, "I have your consent to dance with you, then?"


	3. The Garden: The Silk Demise

_**6:**_

"_And they vow their passion is..."_

* * *

"_How was your session with Hannibal this morning, Dr. Du Maurier?"_

"_Nostalgic. He brought up one of our very first conversations. Have you heard of the opera, 'Doktor Faust'?"_

"_I read the novel, 'Master and Margarita', which, isn't that a similar interpretation? A doctor trades his soul to the devil for ultimate knowledge and pleasure."_

"_Then he encounters the Margarita character and wishes he.. had done things differently."_

"_Why did Hannibal bring up Faust? Then... and now?"_

"_The irony. If the character Faust in fact became omniscient, how did he so greatly mishandle his Love dealings with Margarita... and so on. I told him it was in the nature of the story to moralize in that way. Such is the posit of prayers to the devil."_

"_Do you believe Hannibal is in Love with you, Bedelia, like Faust was with Margarita?"_

"_I believe he is intrigued with me."_

"_Weren't you the one that said they can be one in the same?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Are you... intrigued by him?"_

"_No."_

Alana turned the recording on her phone off and waited for Jack to comment on what he had just heard. He drew in a deep breath and spoke though his exhale, "Sounds like a typical conversation Hannibal would have during his evening meals. You recorded that last night at dinner?"

Alana took the phone off of Jack's desk and placed it into her purse, "Yes. She didn't know I was recording her. We were chatting while I helped her clean off the table."

"Is that what psychologist consider _chatting_?"

Alana smirked, "It was only part of the conversation, Jack. I figured it was the relevant part," as she moved in her chair a bit from one side to the other, "Do you think this changes anything in regard to Hannibal's relationship to Will?"

"It does make me wonder where his line between therapist and patient is drawn," folding his fingers over themselves and resting them in front of his mouth, "It appears that line is a little blurry with Hannibal and Dr. Du Maurier."

Alana hesitated, "She said right there that she is not interested in him in that way."

"Yes, but I'm concerned how Hannibal sees it. Jilted lovers are known to gravitate to easier prey once they've been rejected. Hurt people, _hurt_ people. It's a dominance thing."

"So you think Hannibal might view Will like that because he was rejected by Bedelia?"

"I think there is a lot going on here that we don't know, Alana," as he leaned back in his chair, " It's obvious she knows more then she's letting on."

"Do you want me to continue seeing her?" as Alana lightly began fidgeting with the end of her dress, the ruffled fabric collecting against her crossed leg.

Jack raised an eyebrow at Alana's choice of words, then dismissed it as nothing before moving on, "I think it's a good idea. The last thing I need for Will is a shrink with an ulterior motive."

"I agree. I want what's best for Will."

"And so do I. I think you should call Du Maurier and arrange for another meeting."

Alana stood, pulling her purse onto her shoulder, "Got it. That shouldn't be a problem," as she moved to the door, "I'll get back to you when I can."

"Thank-you, Alana," said Jack as he watched her pass through the glass door of his office. His eyes moved to the end of his desk, the ringing of his office phone sounding off before he answered with, "Jack Crawford."

* * *

Alana settled herself in her car, both hands on the wheel; waiting, waiting, waiting as she drummed her fingers. She pulled the phone out of her purse and slid the menu screen across to the recording before taping the play button to continue listening,

"_Are you... intrigued by him?"_

"_No."_

There is a long silence and light movement in the background, then Bedelia's voice can be heard much closer to the phone she is being recorded on.

"_Are you intrigued with Will Graham?"_

"_...no."_

"_Hm. Well that is an unfortunate coincidence."_

"_Why is that?"_

Bedelia's voice moved further away from where Alana had the phone, the clack of her heels echoing across the kitchen floor in the background.

"_I should be asking you."_

The recording ended soon after that and from what Alana could remember, so did their conversation. The second tall glass of beer she had last night was against her better judgment. Half way through polishing it off she thought better to record the conversation should she have any trouble recalling the next morning.

She let out a sigh, appreciating each inhale that followed with significance. The air around her felt much lighter compared to the weight of Bedelia's presence in front of her- her gravity. The silence and intrinsic motion pulling across the dinner table last night without so much as moving and the sense of something so much greater staring back. The friction increasing as the evening progressed, centering astringently. She felt as if under a beguiling wave of allusive illusions when ever Bedelia locked her crystal focus to hers. Alana clicked rewind on her phone and then play:

"_That is an unfortunate coincidence."_

"_Why is that?"_

Pause. Rewind. Repeat.

Rewind. Repeat. Repeat.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Each time she replayed the recording, she almost felt as though there were different inflections in Bedelia's voice. A new layer, a new shadow to each tone. Her ritual was shortly interrupted with the vibrate of a call, "Hello?"

* * *

"It is the Gorgon," began Dr. Du Maurier as she slowly approached the medium sized oil painting on the far wall of her dining room, "Are you familiar with her?"

"Medusa, right?' as Alana sipped the white wine Bedelia had offered her on arrival.

"Yes," Du Maurier answered with a small tilt of her head, her eyes seemingly fixed on the canvas. The bare feminine curves of Medusa lying across cream color sheets as though she were asleep, the painting rich in dark shadowing yet voluptuous highlights on her skin. Serpentine tresses nestled against the bend of her shoulder line, quiet and still.

"I'm not sure what I think of when I look at it," feeling an odd sort of tranquility resonating from the image of the sleeping creature, "Does it have a title?"

Bedelia replied with a sigh, "_Beauty in the Eye of the Beheader_, I was told it is supposed to be capturing the eve of her beheading," as she too sipped her wine.

"She was beheaded by Perseus," the famous myth slowly coming back to Alana, "Didn't he have some sort of mirror shield?"

"Yes," as Bedelia smirked softly to herself, "I appreciate your knowledge of art, Ms. Bloom."

"It's coming back to me," somewhat smiling to herself, "it's been a while since I've read myths. I'm a little cloudy on the details- why did Perseus kill her?"

"Higher powers. It was ordained. He killed her with her own reflection- evinced."

Alana raised an eyebrow, surprised by Bedelia's answer, "The gods were cruel, if I remember,"as she paused to reflect more on the explicit image, "Do you believe in a higher power, Bedelia?"

"Yes," with another sip, "Love."

Before Alana could respond, there was a phone ringing in the the other room. Dr. Du Maureir nodded to excuse herself as she made her way to the sound. Alana waited, admiring the painting now in the stillness. The monster looked so calm, so serene as she slept the night before her undoing. Tranquil in the unknowing. Free in her dreams of tomorrow. The echo of Du Maurier's heels let Alana know she was returning to the room, the sound halting just behind her a moment as she felt Bedelia take a deep breath inward. Du Maurier moved in front of Alana, standing closer to the painting. Something about Du Maurier's presence seemed off balanced, bothered. Alana was about to ask if she was alright, but before she could, Bedelia had continued on about the painting,

"Do you think she'll know when her eve is?"

Alana saw the doctor harden quickly from what ever emotion had lingered before. She was beginning to understand Bedelia's style of dance, "I was actually wondering what she was dreaming about. She looks so peaceful."

Bedelia raised an eyebrow, "... nightmares can start off that way," moving over to the table with the opened wine bottle. She refilled her glass before holding up the bottle toward Alana in a motion asking if she would like another. Alana extended her glass obliging Du Maurier.

"I don't care how good of a therapist a person claims to be, dreams are always hard to figure out with limited information," Alana continued, "She _looks_ at rest. I feel like the artist might have shown that for a reason."

Bedelia did not reply right away. Instead she leaned back on the dinning room table behind her, bringing the glass to her lips again, "Perhaps."

"Who did you say painted it?"

Bedelia clenched her jaw slightly and cleared her throat before whispering almost to herself, "Hannibal Lecter."

Alana spilled a few drops of her drink down the sides of her mouth, taken a bit off guard. Bedelia watched as Alana quickly wiped the traces of wine from the creases of her lips.

"By the way, he just called. Will you _also_ be saying yes to his dinner invitation? I think.. it would be rude if you said no."


End file.
